


In Sight of the Sun

by PersephoneTree



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Historical References, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephoneTree/pseuds/PersephoneTree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which an angel and a demon share drinks in a Haymarket tavern, Aziraphale has strong feelings on the matter of sexual identity and the nature of sin, and Crowley becomes concerned. Set in the 1800s in England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sight of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for my roommate as a holiday present, this was supposed to be a comical, smutty little ficlet about Crowley in British Naval uniform and Aziraphale's poor fashion sense. Then I did some research for historical accuracy's sake, stumbled on a lot of horrific first-hand accounts of early 19th-century gaybashing, and... this happened instead. 
> 
> It is neither smutty nor exceptionally comic, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

 

“The most famous among [the philosophers] were known not only to approve but pratise [sic] unnatural Lust. To which we may add the cynicks, who laying aside the natural Restraints of Shame and Modesty, committed the Acts of Lust, like brute Beasts, openly and in the sight of the Sun […]” - Anthony Blissam, Vicar of Portsmouth, _Observations on Mr. Chubb's discourse concerning Reason_ , London, 1731

 

_London, 1809_

 

            “Another pint?”

            Aziraphale considered his tankard, near-empty, and suppressed a hiccup. “Oh, go on, then.”

            Concentrating, Crowley squinted through his smoked-glass spectacles, and both their mugs were full, though the liquid in them was a deeper burgundy than beer had any right to be.

            Aziraphale tasted it, and raised one pale eyebrow. “Different vintage than the last ones,” he noted.

            “I’m not exactly sober,” Crowley muttered, “so ‘s no use complaining.” He took a sip from his own tankard and shrugged. “It’s not bad, anyway. Where were we?”

            They were in a pub off the Haymarket, and though it was early afternoon the place was already rowdy; the majority of its patrons were theater folk, actors off duty until the evening. Crowley had smirked when Aziraphale chose that location for their debriefing. True, it was near enough to the bookshop, but the angel had always had an affinity for thespians. He even looked like one, in his fine-cut frock coat and elegant cravat, though he was too neat and proper to really fit in in a tavern. Crowley didn’t know why Aziraphale didn’t opt for military garb; he himself was quite comfortable in his lieutenant’s suit of dark Navy blue. Besides, it was better than invisibility. All sailors looked alike in uniform.

            “You were telling me about the French,” Aziraphale prompted.

            “Was I?”

            “About this mess over the pen- penil- peninsula.”

            “Oh, yes!” Crowley grimaced, remembering Corunna, the starved and the wounded, and the scarlet-haired woman he’d glimpsed on the battlefield, astride a huge bay courser, picking her way almost casually among the bodies on the Spanish coastline. He pushed the mental images away and took a long swig from his mug. “It _is_ a mess, really. Britain’s never been good at land wars.”

            “They were doing all right until your Napoleon fellow came along,” Aziraphale argued. Crowley felt the corners of his lips twitch upwards. Really, it was quite endearing how defensive Aziraphale got over this little island. (Although, the demon had to admit, he was growing rather fond of it himself.)

            “He’s not _my_ Napoleon fellow.”

            “No?” Aziraphale drained the last of his wine and shot Crowley a puzzled look. “I thought he was one of yours. You said as much last time. After that business with the _coup_ back in ’99.”

            Crowley fidgeted under the angel’s questioning eyes, as blue as cloudless sky. “Well. He was one of ours originally. I think.”

            “You think? You’re not sure?”

            The demon sighed heavily, turning his head away. “Look, it’s complicated. I pulled a few strings to get him into place, sure, but he might just as easily have done it himself. And I hadn’t anything to do with him afterwards. That's the thing with humans, you know, all it takes is a little nudge and they do the rest themselves. It’s like they _want_ to be tempted.”

            Aziraphale gave a little sniff. “I wish they were all as easily swayed in the other direction.” There was – if it was even possible for an angel – the faintest hint of real jealousy in his voice. Crowley looked up swiftly, mouth open to gloat, but the words withered on his tongue when he saw the anxious look on his adversary’s plump face. The angel managed a weak smile. “Things aren’t moving as quickly as we’d hoped, I’m afraid,” he confessed.

            “What things?”

            “Well, this slavery business, for one.”

            “Your lot fixed that a few years ago, I thought.” Crowley distinctly remembered receiving a triumphant and rather smug letter. “Here and in America.”

            Aziraphale looked suddenly very weary. “Not exactly. The ban was against the trade, not slavery itself. It’s still happening. People are suffering, Crowley. I’ve tried talking to some of the people Upstairs, but they’re no use, they all just say it’s—”

            “Ineffable?” Crowley suggested.

            “Exactly. And I’m sure they’re right,” the angel continued. “I’m sure there’s a Plan in place for the future, of course. Only… there’s so _much_ suffering, and it’s happening _now_.” Aziraphale tucked his chin to his chest and stared down into his empty tankard. A short lock of golden hair fell forward across his forehead. Crowley felt a very strong, very drunken urge to reach out and brush it back.

            Instead he stood up, wobbling, and clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. “Come on, then,” he said. “’S too loud here. Back to the shop, eh?”

            The angel nodded, and they both sobered up, Crowley shuddering a little as the warm wool blanket of alcohol was shed. As usual Aziraphale laid a coin on the table for the barman. They hadn’t even bought a drink, they never did, but this time Crowley bit back his customary remarks. Sobering up didn’t seem to have done anything to improve Aziraphale’s abrupt downturn in mood, and somehow he didn’t feel like contributing to it.

            Haymarket Street was nearly as loud as the tavern had been; the air was full of the shouts of farmers and the braying of their horses. There was a pervasive stench of straw and manure. Crowley was careful to watch his step as they strolled towards Piccadilly; his boots had been expensive, and he’d just had them shined.

            At the end of the street a small crowd had gathered. Some of these were farmers and merchants, but there were women among them too, and a handful of more respectably-dressed gentlemen. Many were shouting, although most of the words were drowned out by the noise from the market. Curiosity piqued, Crowley paused to peer over a few heads but couldn’t make out, through the thick press of bodies, what it was they were shouting _at_.

            “Oh, no, not again,” Aziraphale moaned, under his breath.

            And then the crowd shifted, just enough, and Crowley saw what Aziraphale meant.

            A young man was locked into the pillory on the corner, head and hands thrust through the openings and the planks locked shut around them with a pin. His shirt was torn and his brown hair hung in unwashed tendrils. As Crowley watched, an elderly woman stepped forward and spat into the man’s face.

            “Filthy sodomite!” she shrieked, and the crowd roared its approval.

            The first stone came out of nowhere, hurled by an invisible hand, soaring through the air and smacking the pillory board just shy of the man’s left hand. He thrashed in his bonds, staring about him with wild eyes. Another stone struck him square on the temple, and he howled.

            A third stone flew towards the man’s face. It never reached its target. Two feet away, it glanced off thin air and dropped harmlessly to the hay-strewn ground. The crowd hesitated, their jeers dwindling.

            Crowley snuck a look at Aziraphale. The angel’s face was bone-white, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes were fixed unflinchingly on the man in the pillory, and they blazed with righteousness.

            “What are you _doing_ , angel?” Crowley hissed. “Are you mad?”

            “It’s not right,” Aziraphale gritted through clenched teeth.

            The man in the pillory blinked, dazed by the sudden reprieve. Blood trickled from the cut on his forehead. The mob around him seemed unsure how to proceed until someone to Crowley’s right said, “Must’ve been the wind.”

            “Yeah, right,” someone else said hurriedly. “The wind. ‘Course.”

            A frisson of mutual agreement ran through the crowd, and a voice shouted, “On with it! Get the molly!”

            A roar went up as more stones were thrown, and eggs, and rotten fruit. None bounced away this time, but not a single one landed where it should have. The ground and stocks were soon covered in debris, but the prisoner himself remained unscathed. He goggled as a tomato that had been nearing his eyes suddenly veered off course and splatted against the wood of the pillory. Crowley could sense the crowd’s puzzlement as well. Soon they would start asking questions. Furious, he whirled on his adversary. The angel’s lips were moving ever so slightly, his blue eyes burning.

            “Stop that!” Crowley whispered, fiercely. He grabbed Aziraphale’s elbow and shook him hard. “Stop it, now, unless you want to see him hanged for witchcraft as well as buggery!”

            To his relief, that seemed to snap Aziraphale out of his rage, for his shoulders slumped, and there was a great cry from the crowd as some vile thing found its mark at last. As the assault continued, Crowley dragged the angel bodily away from the pillory and its fans, out of the Haymarket into busy Piccadilly.

            He managed to keep his cool until he’d gotten Aziraphale into the drawing-room of the little flat behind the bookshop and locked the door behind them. Then he exploded.

            “What in blazes was _that_ little display?! You know that’s against the rules! Yeah, okay, we all do it sometimes, perk of the job, etcetera, but we do it on the _sly_ , not out in the open with all of bloody London watching! Honestly, angel, what were you _thinking_?!”

            “I was thinking,” Aziraphale said stiffly, “that what happened back there – to that poor man – was _wrong_.”

            “I’ve got news for you, angel: that’s how the world works! Bad things happen, good things happen, everything balances out, and _we don’t get involved_.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “I know you have a soft spot for humanity, but you can’t just go butting in like that. Not like _that_ , in broad daylight. That’s not how we do it!”

            Aziraphale said nothing, just sank into a fraying armchair and began tugging off his boots. Crowley paced across the carpet, eyeing him.

            “Why are you so bothered, anyway?” he asked, when the angel didn’t speak. “Your lot are dead set against sodomy.”

            “We are _not_!” Aziraphale snarled, his head jerking up to meet the demon’s gaze. It was the first time Crowley had ever heard him snarl. The placid, slightly nervous expression Aziraphale usually wore was gone. In its place, anger, frustration and bewilderment flickered in turns across the familiar features, contorting them into those of a stranger. When he spoke again, though, his tone was gentler, his voice puzzled and sad. “At least, _I’m_ not. Not personally. And I don’t think I have to be professionally either.”

            “What, really?” Crowley gaped at him. “But… but it’s a sin. To your side, I mean. Well, and to mine, but we like sins. And this is one of the big ones.”

            “Is it really a sin, though?” Aziraphale’s voice took on a pleading edge. “Think about it, Crowley. Are there really souls in He- er, Downstairs, that are only there because of this particular crime?”

            “You know I don’t spend a lot of time down there.”

            “That’s beside the point!” The angel sighed and slumped back into the armchair. “I just don’t know if it’s true that it’s a sin.”

            Crowley frowned. “What d’you mean, ‘true’? Your side smote a whole city because of it, that’s where the bloody name comes from! Of course it’s true.”

            “I’m not sure anymore,” Aziraphale murmured, gazing at the floor. “Crowley, that man… that boy, really, he was only twenty years old…”

            “What about him?”

            “He was an innocent in every other way,” the angel said quietly. “I knew it when I looked at him. He had never harmed anyone, never stolen, never cheated his employer. He had never spoken lies about anyone but himself, and those lies he did tell were only to protect himself and others from exposure.”

            Crowley thought back to the man’s face, bloodied and bruised and wide-eyed with terror and shame. Shame, but not guilt. Ashamed at getting caught, not ashamed of his crime.

            “He’s going to be hanged tomorrow,” Aziraphale continued, in a monotone. “He will be hanged, and he’ll die, and I don’t think his soul belongs with your people Downstairs.”

            “Well, it’s not _our_ fault,” said Crowley, lamely. “It’s Upstairs’ policy, right? Not one of ours.”

            “But I’m not so sure it _is_ our policy.”

            “It is! It has to be! It’s in the book, for – for someone’s sake!”

            “Then perhaps the book is wrong.”

            A shiver went up Crowley’s spine, coiling around it like a snake on a branch. “Aziraphale,” he said slowly, “do you – you know what it is that you’re saying, right? I mean, this is dangerously close to… rebelling.”

            The angel glanced up, meeting his gaze, and then he flashed Crowley a smile so full of warmth and love that it almost made him gag. “You’re worried,” Aziraphale whispered. “You’re worried I’ll fall.”

            Crowley couldn’t meet his eyes anymore, but didn’t know where else to look, so he looked at his feet. His left boot had straw and mud (oh, he hoped that was mud) stuck to the toe. He wanted to clean it, snap his fingers and make it shine again, but he couldn’t focus with Aziraphale’s words echoing in his head.

            “Oh, my dear boy.” Aziraphale stood, then, and faced him, shorter without his shoes on and still looking at Crowley like that, with that fond little smile. “You needn’t worry about that. It takes more than personal opinions and vague doubts to cast an angel out.”

            Crowley made a noncommittal noise. _Maybe the book is wrong_ … “Did you mean it?” he asked. “What you said.”

            “It’s something I’ve considered once or twice before,” Aziraphale admitted. “It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. It’s all ineffable anyway. But I just can’t bear to see that kind of punishment for something I’m not a hundred percent certain is truly a sin.”

            “That’s humans for you, though,” Crowley said. “They’ve all got some cruelty in them. Same as the other things that make them so easy to tempt. Give them one little verse, and they run with it.”

            “And justify their acts in Heaven’s name,” Aziraphale sighed.

            Crowley lowered himself into the vacant armchair and rubbed his temples, trying to massage away the unsettling thoughts. Aziraphale banished his frock coat with a wave of his hand, then sat down on the floor by Crowley’s feet, leaning back against his legs. His blond head found the demon’s knee and rested there. After a few moments, Crowley’s fingers reached out and combed gently through the soft golden curls.

            “Aziraphale?”

            “Mm?”

            “You never answered me. Do you really think the book is wrong about this?”

            “I hope so, my dear. Oh, I truly do hope so.”

 


End file.
